


At Ease, With You

by Anonymous



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, Fluff, Implied Past Billford, Love Confessions, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon, The Mindscape, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Although Mabel was able to lay the groundwork for restoring Stan's memories, there is still work to do to restore Stan's mind. It should be simple enough for someone like Ford, who's spent decades learning about the Mindscape.Of course, it isn't that simple.





	At Ease, With You

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission for a lovely anon, who I can't thank enough for giving me the chance to write this. <3

“You can do anything you like, here,” Ford says. “And anyone entering your mind can, too. Here – watch.” Ford lifts a hand and snaps; a door appears in the hallway, with a sign in the middle with Ford’s tidy cursive spelling out a date and the words _Pines Pawns_. “I haven’t seen this one in your mind, yet,” he explains, “so, here is one of our shared memories. Take a look.”

Stan opens the door and peers in – it’s a movie night from when they were fourteen, one of the rare times that both of their parents were out and they could do what they liked. Stan leans against the doorframe, watching as the two of them crack up at a man getting devoured by a monster, then as Stan smacks Ford between his shoulders to dislodge a piece of popcorn from his throat. While the memory itself is a good one, Ford finds he has no interest in watching it unfold – instead, he watches Stan, his relaxed posture, the easy way his fingers rest against the doorframe.

When he shuts the door, he’s smiling. “That’ll stay?”

Ford nods. “As much as any memory will. Now, since you’re part of the memory, there will probably be another door that opens up either next to or inside of this one, and that’ll have your version of the memory. They may consolidate, eventually.”

“Huh. Alright. Can you get rid of memories?”

“You can bury them,” Ford says. “Or lock them away. But no – without Fiddleford’s memory gun, they’ll always be there, even if your conscious mind has forgotten. Which is why your mind is a strange case.”

“What about memories without me?” Stan asks. “Can you stick those in here?”

Ford hesitates at that. “Sort of,” he says. “But their permanence isn’t guaranteed. Most likely they would get consolidated into one larger room, sort of like the hallways – you’d see glimpses of what I’ve given you. Here.” He raises both of his hands; three wooden boxes lift out of the ground. “Watch.” With a flick of his wrist, the boxes all open; Stan leans forward, his hands on his hips. There is one memory of Ford playing DDaMD with Dipper, another of Mabel walking with him to the general store, and finally one of Soos showing Ford how video calls work.

Once the memories have played through, Ford relaxes his focus and the boxes blink out of existence – and then they’re back as a fortune teller game with Ford’s face, wearing a somewhat manic grin, replacing the typical porcelain design. Ford can’t help but laugh at the design as Stan pokes the button – there, a slightly distorted version of a memory covers the glass, the one with Mabel and Ford. She’s wearing the wrong sweater, and her smile is more exuberant than Ford remembers, her hands waving enthusiastically as she talks. But it’s close.

“Weird,” Stan says. “Alright. Point being, you can help me clean up around here.”

Ford nods. “Now, that’s the extent that a typical person – even one with access to the Mindscape – can affect things. Because of my studies, I have a bit more up my sleeve that should help. Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Stan says. But he’s just as relaxed as he was before, watching Ford like he knows Ford will only do right by him, here.

“That’s what I like to hear. Now! Let’s find your subconscious.”

*

Ford doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. Part of it’s that the wind’s been knocked out of him; the drop out of a person’s mind is always rough, but landing on a hardwood floor is enough to rattle anyone. The rest, though -- the rest of it is that he’s overwhelmed, not sure how to process the emotions spinning through his mind and making his chest squeeze. And, he realizes dimly, he is hard. Ah. Ford sits up and turns his back to Stan just as Stan starts to stir; he bites his lip when Stan groans and it makes his cock twitch. That’s -- not what he expected. It’s nothing, he’s sure, nothing at all, and he tells himself that over and over even as Stan’s sleepy shifting stokes his interest.

“Hey,” Stan murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, “I do still remember it. The movie night thing, I mean. That leading lady was a fox.”

“Somehow,” Ford says, rising to his feet, “it doesn’t surprise me that that’s what you remember.”

“Give me a break, I was a kid.”

Ford glances over his shoulder at Stan. His brother is still utterly relaxed, his hair mussed from sleep, the blankets draped over his chest. The morning light coming in from the porthole is a muted blue; the shadows of the room have intrigue, rather than secrets. Stan is smiling, like they’ve just – no. He’s smiling like he’s happy about the progress they’ve made. “Funny,” he says, “so was I. Early bird gets the bathroom. Excuse me.”

“No fair,” Stan calls after him, smiling still.

*

“That’s my subconscious, huh?” Stan kicks a rock down into it; it clinks off of one thing or another as it drops, but there is no final splash or thud. “Are they all bottomless pits?”

“Not necessarily, but I’m not surprised yours is.” Ford crouches down at the edge, resting his elbows on his knees. “So – down there is…how do I put this. If your mind were a car, then everything we’ve seen so far is the body, interior, the things in the backseat and trunk – that sort of thing. This here is what’s under the hood: Essential, but inaccessible to anyone who isn’t a mechanic.”

“So, you’re the mechanic.”

“Theoretically. You can be, too. I can teach you. But – I warn you, it’s not for the faint of heart. Not only are things difficult to understand, down there, but it can be incredibly overwhelming, especially if you’re trying to access your own subconscious.” If Ford had tried to undo Bill’s damage on his own, he’s not sure he would have survived the attempt; it had been a good friend who first led him down into the turmoil of his own mind, and even with her aide, Ford had been a wreck for weeks afterwards. He’d found many things down there that he would rather forget.

That particular subset of his memories is locked deep, deep down, inaccessible to anyone who might try.

Ford clears his throat and rubs at his mouth. “For now,” he continues, “I think it would be better if you stayed topside and let me investigate what’s left. But it’s not necessary that either of us go down there for you to heal – our surface-level work will make its way down into the subconscious. It already has. I understand that – well, with the life you’ve lived, you may not be comfortable with someone seeing your raw self. To be frank, I wouldn’t be. Not even you or Dipper.”

“Mabel, though?”

“Hell, no,” Ford says, with a surprised laugh. “I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“But it’s a maybe with me, huh?”

Ford hesitates. Stan doesn’t know what the question means to Ford – still doesn’t know the long and sordid history between Ford and Bill, the things Bill did to Ford’s very soul, the damage he inflicted before Ford caught on to his lies. He has no idea what it means for Ford to look up into Stan’s face, and shrug, and say, “Well, if I had to pick one person it would be you, yes.”

But maybe Ford is wrong – Stan seems taken back by that. He opens and shuts his mouth, then, after a pause, crouches down next to Ford and sets a hand on his shoulder. Inexplicably, Ford’s throat tightens; he keeps his gaze focused on the black abyss before them. Stan squeezes his shoulder, then drops his hand. “Alright,” he says. “What’re you gonna do down there?”

*

Ford drops back into reality with a gasp. They’ve started putting down pillows and blankets between their beds so the fall doesn’t hurt, anymore, but it’s still a shock to the system. He stays flat on his back, gazing up at the glow-in-the-dark stars they’ve put on the ceiling, courtesy of Mabel. Orion hangs just above his head.

Stan groans, a deep sound. Ford shudders and shuts his eyes.

The bed creaks under Stan’s weight; Ford sits up, lifting his right knee to obscure his erection.

“Am I _ever_ gonna get used to that?” Stan asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Did you ever get used to Gravity Falls?”

Stan thinks about that for a moment, still working his finger and thumb into his eyes. “I dunno, but it felt like I was leaving home. I guess so?”

“There you have it,” Ford says.

“Did you – you were gonna go into my subconscious, right?”

“I was,” Ford says, toying with the frayed corner of a blanket. “But we talked about it and decided to do more top-level work, first. It’ll be safer to make sure Bill isn’t in the upper levels before going deeper.”

“Hmm,” Stan says. “Ford’s an idiot. Oh – guess you didn’t.”

That surprises a laugh out of Ford. “I – really?”

“Hang on – Ford doesn’t know what he’s doing. Ford stinks.” Stan counts them off on his fingers, grinning as he does. “Ford’s a dumbass. Dang, you really let me keep it all.”

Ford is laughing hard, now, the discomfort of his body easing up, his face flushing. “I wouldn’t – Stanley – “

“Ford has a tiny penis,” Stan continues, starting to snicker. “Ford has no PhDs. I’m the alpha twin. Uhh, let’s see. What else are you sensitive about? Hey, stop laughing, I’m trying to make sure I can still make fun of you.”

Maybe Ford’s a little sleep deprived – maybe he’s just that giddy to have Stan making light of this -- but it feels like he’s floating, all the weight of his mistakes lifting off his back.

*

“Okay,” Stan says, “you can make it so I can’t say you stink, but you gotta let me keep everything else.”

“I’m not going to change anything,” Ford says, smiling. He has climbed over the edge of the bottomless pit; Stan is holding him in place, his grip firm and reassuring in this uncertain place. “For the last time.”

“Right, right. Wait, let me just say it one more time -- Ford stinks.”

“Why is that the one you’ve latched onto?”

Stan shrugs, grinning down at him. “It annoys you the most, apparently.”

Ford shakes his head. “Alright, enough dallying. Are you ready?”

“I don’t know,” Stan says, turning his head away, doubt creeping over his face. “You said it’s going to be rough down there, right? You’re gonna be exposed to it all? Even the weird shit?”

Ford opens his mouth to answer -- _I don’t have to, it’s alright, we can work on something else --_ but before he can so much as make a peep, Stan throws him out into the center of the pit, and Ford is falling, falling, falling, all while Stan cackles from above.

*

Another night, another sudden return to the conscious world, and -- Ford checks -- yes, another erection. Lately it’s only gotten worse; sometimes he can feel his pulse picking up even before Stan is asleep. Last night he’d even struggled to focus on the spell, so intense was his desire; it’d only been after he forced himself to close his eyes to Stan’s sleeping form that he remembered the exact pronunciation.

He’s not an idiot. He knows it’s not just the situation, but Stan, too: Stan’s impossibly powerful body, the stubble perpetually darkening his strong jaw, the full-bellied way he laughs, the warm crush of his hugs. It’s his smell, his clothes, his hair, just long enough, now, that it curls over his ears. It’s the focused way he sets himself to tasks, the utter dedication he gives to everything that matters to him, the almost-coy, mostly-frank way he brushes off things that don’t. It’s his deft fingers disappearing into someone’s pocket out of habit and the sheepish way he shrugs when caught. It’s the way he listens to Ford, late at night, as if every last word out of Ford’s mouth is precious.

It’s him.

But Ford is fairly certain that he wouldn’t notice all of those things quite so acutely if it weren’t for this.

He’s good, now, at hiding his arousal before Stan comes around -- he has, after all, had a lifetime of practice, albeit usually in less taboo situations -- but that’s never quite enough to erase his shame and guilt at having to hide it at all. Most of the time, he lets it pass on its own. He’s found that actually touching himself while thinking about Stan only makes his shame worse, and can lead to him spending an entire day avoiding Stan’s eyes, in case Stan can somehow read him well enough to know what he’s done, and why.

Ford realizes that Stan has been very quiet, this morning. Normally by now he’s groaning and complaining about Ford waking him up every time he drops out of Stan’s mind. Ford turns from his position on the floor to see what’s the matter -- and jerks a little in surprise when he finds Stan sleepily gazing at him. Ford flushes, his face so hot that he knows it must be visible.

“What?” he says, a little sharper than he meant.

Stan swallows. Ford doesn’t like how soft Stan’s expression is, right now, half-asleep and tender and -- god, Ford is hard, wants so badly to lean up and kiss Stan on the mouth, but -- but --

Stan reaches out and ruffles Ford’s hair. “Go start some coffee,” he says, then rolls so his back is to Ford and settles back under the covers.

Ford’s heart pounds in his chest.

*

Even with Ford’s experience and well-honed defenses, it’s -- difficult. So much of the loneliness and pain from Ford’s own subconscious is here, shaped the same way, screaming out in the same timbre. The fear, a twin to Ford’s own, makes Ford’s heart shudder. The anger, too, is unspeakable, like the roar of a wildfire.

He focuses on his intellect as best as he can.

Then, he drops into the focal point, the centerpiece from which Bill was the most dangerous and most skilled, the place Ford once swore he would never touch in anyone’s mind but his own. Now, he is not so sure. When Stan’s focal point coalesces into a space, it is a cave that Ford knows very well. It is the same focal point of his own mind, a place rife enough with metaphor and substance that it remains, even after everything.

What he’s learned, over the years, is that from here, it is possible to facilitate a deep and enduring change -- for example, the sort of change that warps the meaning of a word, which was one of Bill’s favorite games to play. It’s Ford’s understanding that there are limits to what can be changed, even in such a place -- for instance, Bill was never able to change Ford’s core self enough to make him forsake humanity, which would certainly have been the easiest path for Bill to take. What Ford hopes, and what he explained to Stan before descending, is that he can pour some of his own sense-memories into Stan, which should unlock more of Stan’s childhood. Ideally the rest, then, will follow.

He will do that, certainly. But he’s still reeling from the trip down, his mind spinning, his throat tight.

Ford has time, here. Stan won’t know.

He hunkers down, holding in his heart the journey down -- that loneliness, that longing -- and weeps, muffling the sound in his hands.

“Hey,” a voice says, surprising Ford into silence. When he lifts his head, Stan is there -- not any set age, flickering between them in a way that would confuse Ford’s conscious mind but that feels natural, here. Ford’s only been this deep inside of his own mind. He never thought a tangible part of Stan might exist here. “Stanford, what’s wrong?”

Ford hesitates. This must be another way that Bill was able to change Ford, by talking to and influencing this version of him. He doesn’t want to act without thinking, first. He won’t do anything to hurt Stan -- he _won’t._

“It’s okay,” Stanley says, as if he’s read Ford’s mind. He crouches down; he sets his hands on Ford’s shoulders, a touch that comforts Ford to his core. “You’re here.”

*

He’s never had a drop quite this bad.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stan says. “Whoa. Easy.”

Ford should have known better. He’d thought it would be bearable inside another person, with his defenses as strong as they are, but he hadn’t considered the effect of having it be Stan’s mind. He can’t stop shaking, and every time he thinks he will manage to not cry, the tears well up again, burning from his eyes down to his throat. He holds Stan’s arms and struggles to breathe. He can’t stop thinking about the loneliness, how perfectly tuned it was to vibrate in Ford’s own heart --

And he also can’t stop thinking about Stan’s arms around his neck, a touch so comforting it had stilled something inside of Ford.

“I’m fine,” Ford says, though he sounds wretched. “It’s just intense. It’s just -- “

Stan leans down and kisses him.

“Then don’t do that again, Brainiac,” he says, low, low. He kisses Ford again, before Ford can collect himself -- and, hell, if Stan wants this, Ford won’t argue.

*

“What I’ve been trying to figure out,” Stan says, “is if you’re just into that, or what.”

Ford’s almost fallen asleep, his head resting on Stan’s shoulder. He shifts. “Into what?”

Stan hums, the sound rumbling between them. “I mean, is it something about being in my brain? Or what?”

Ford flushes. His automatic response, which is to say he has no idea what Stan is talking about, seems insulting, now. “It’s you,” he says. “What else would it be?”

“No, you’re not…” Stan scoots a little away from Ford; Ford takes the cue and rolls so his back is pressed against the wall, giving Stan space. “You always get all weird before and after, y’know, you go into my brain, but not when we’re having lunch or whatever. So is it the dreaming thing?”

Ford swallows. He focuses, for a few moments, on the thrum of his heartbeat. “Not exactly,” he says, slowly.

He begins to explain.

*

They spend most of the day kissing between chores and work, so Ford’s nerves have worn off by the time the sun is setting red and gold on the horizon. Stan doesn’t ask any questions when Ford hands him the pill, just takes it before Ford even has the chance to tell him how it’ll work. Ford shakes his head -- he has to scold him, because he appreciates Stan’s blatant show of trust, but he doesn’t want this to override Stan’s common sense. Stan shrugs and tugs him into his lap, kissing along Ford’s jaw and throat as Ford explains how the drug will work -- _you should be asleep in half an hour -- Stan, please, are you even lis -- ah._

Soon, they are resting on Stan’s bed, Ford half-draped over Stan, his hand pressed between them to slowly rub at Stan’s stiffening cock. When Stan’s touches begin to lose steam, his kisses loosening and becoming lazy, a flash of worry goes through Ford. “Hey,” he says, lifting his head. “Look, I know…”

“Don’t,” Stan says. He doesn’t open his eyes. One of his hands slides up the back of Ford’s neck to tangle in his hair; he rubs slow circles there, the tips of his fingers catching on the line of Ford’s scar. “Alright? Don’t.”

“I’m going to worry,” he says.

“C’mon, Sixer, you’re offering me the easiest sex of my life and you think I’m gonna turn it down?” He does crack an eye open for that, his grin loose and relaxed. His free hand goes to cover Ford’s; he eases it off of his erection and twines their fingers together. “Go ahead,” he says. “Knock me out.” He winks -- and Ford’s not sure which of them starts laughing first, knows only that it’s Ford who stops laughing last, because Stan’s snickering slows, slows, and then eases into soft breathing.

Ford watches, entranced. He can tell how surely Stan is sleeping by the grip against his fingers; it relaxes, bit by bit, before finally Stan isn’t holding at all, but rather letting himself be held.

Ford takes off Stan’s glasses, folds the legs neatly. He sets them on the side table, then sits on the edge of the bed, hands between his knees, watching Stan. Stan’s erection has waned, but Ford’s is harder now than it was while they were kissing. He can’t stop thinking of the way Stan said _don’t,_ his hand going loose in Ford’s hair, the wet, red shine of his mouth.

Still -- it would almost be easier to go back into Stan’s mind. Now that he has Stan like this, he’s not sure what to do, where to start.

He wonders if that’s how Bill felt.

_Don’t._ So, then, Ford won’t. He won’t let his mind take over, here. He won’t let Bill take the lead, especially not now that he is dead.

He undresses. As he does, he thinks, hard, of Stan tugging him into his lap during lunch and kissing the line of his jaw, and of Stan cornering him in the hallway and saying, _excuse me,_ before tracing his hand up Ford’s side, through his jacket, and kissing the corner of his mouth, and of Stan’s wild grin the split second before he threw Ford down into the darkest parts of his mind.

Ford climbs back into bed, between Stan’s thighs. He cups his brother’s face.

Stan doesn’t stir. Ford knows from experience how potent the drug is; he’s confident that Stan won’t wake, at least not easily. He runs his thumbs along Stan’s cheeks, touches the corners of his mouth. He looks peaceful when he sleeps, his worries siphoning away. Ford leans down and kisses Stan’s forehead, once. Twice. He slides his fingers back into Stan’s hair, cradling his head, and traces his kisses along the wrinkles in Stan’s forehead, into the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, kisses his nose, his scruffy cheeks. As he does, Stan begins to snore, quietly at first.

_Don’t._

He won’t think about Bill. Bill doesn’t exist, here, and has no power.

Ford slides his hands down Stan’s neck, taking his time. He wants to feel every inch of Stan, wants to have Stan as completely as Stan will let him. And Stan, against all odds, wants to be had by Ford; he trusts him, body and mind, trusts him so completely that it still sometimes scares Ford. Having that kind of power over a person is something he hopes he never gets used to.

Stan doesn’t stir as Ford’s hands slip up his belly, bringing Stan’s shirt up to his collarbone, where Ford leaves it bunched. He bends down, stroking Stan’s chest, sides, stomach, and kissing his neck, his jaw, his face. He’s so hard that he’s struggling to think; he hasn’t gotten off in days, too wrapped up in his anxieties, at first, and today, well, it just hadn’t happened, Stan kissing him and then parting, Ford letting Stan guide him through the day.

It seemed only fair – after all, Ford has been guiding him through the night for weeks.

He straddles Stan’s bare thigh, pushing Stan’s boxers higher up his leg to give himself as much access to Stan’s skin as he possible. He begins to rub his cock in shallow thrusts against Stan. Stan shifts in his sleep, letting out a soft noise. Ford wonders if Stan is dreaming of him – or maybe some other partner, Carla, perhaps.

Something in him doubts that.

“Stan,” he says, running a thumb along Stan’s nipple. “Stan.” His voice seems oddly loud in the sleepy darkness, though his voice is barely above a whisper. He swallows and runs his tongue over his mouth, then bends forward and kisses Stan, tasting his bottom lip, relishing in Stan’s unconscious, uncoordinated response, a slight opening to Ford.

“I don’t understand,” Ford says. He sits up, bracing his hands just above Stan’s knees, and begins to rock his hips in earnest. “Why you – why you – “ He swallows. His body is hyper-sensitive, all of his nerves singing as he grinds his cock against Stan’s leg. “You’re so handsome,” he says, glad Stan isn’t awake to see how saying that makes him blush. “Hell, Stanley. What would I do without you? What would I have done?”

Ford shakes his head; his throat is tight. But – Stan can’t see, he can’t hear. Stan simply is, his snoring a little louder, now, his head canted to one side, his lips gleaming from Ford’s kisses.

He catches his thumbs in Stan’s boxers and pulls them down around Stan’s knees. He’s soft, which Ford should have expected but didn’t – his own cock is aching. It makes Stan seem more vulnerable, if that’s even possible. Ford leans over Stan, resting an elbow by Stan’s head, and begins to stroke Stan’s belly, the hair between his legs, his thighs, not touching Stan’s cock, not yet. He wants to savor this. He wants Stan to, too.

His own breath begins to pick up, distinct and noisy in the quiet air, a need not yet resolved, his pleasure dragging on, and on, as his hands drag across Stan's body. There's so much he wants to say, or do.

He reminds himself that this is only the first time.

Stan grunts under his breath, then murmurs something in his sleep -- too indistinct even for Ford to hear, close as he is. He kisses the corner of Stan's mouth. "I love you," he says. He wraps his hand around Stan's cock, which is beginning to warm and stiffen, its weight changing in his grip. "Stan, I -- you mean so much to me -- this means so much."

He bends down and sucks at Stan's throat; he tangles his free hand in the chain around Stan's neck, relishing in the contrast of the gold against his overheated palm.

Slowly, slowly, he begins to kiss his way down. His right hand stays between Stan's legs, working him in relaxed twists. He's not in a hurry to make Stan come. And Stan is not going to ask him to hurry.

"Fuck," Ford says. "Fuck. I want..." His teeth graze at Stan's nipple; that elicits a sharper noise from Stan, but still isn't enough to wake him up. Ford's cock twitches at that; he bites back his own moan, then changes course, his arousal lending him urgency. He climbs back up, lining his cock up to Stan's, and begins to twist his hand around both of them. He peppers Stan's face and throat with kisses as he does, panting hard.

But -- Stan could stay asleep for at least another five hours, with the drug. That thought makes Ford go still, though a full-body shiver runs through him at the drop in stimulation.

He slowly lowers himself next to Stan, struggling to keep from touching himself, struggling to keep his wits about him. He's wanted this for so long that stopping now is torture.

But -- but. He has time. There’s no rush. "I love you," he says, the words ghosting over Stan's cheek, and hopefully, in some way, finding their way deep into Stan's mind. He slides his fingers through Stan's hair and holds him, and breathes, and begins to explore Stan’s body with the tips of his fingers all over again.

*

When the light coming through the porthole has taken on a soft gray tint he decides he can’t take it, anymore. He checks Stan's watch: Four thirty.

That should've been enough time.

He's hard before he even moves, his body buzzing with all of the times he has held back. He begins to kiss a straight path from Stan's throat down his chest, down his belly, to his hips, which he lavishes with wet sucking kisses while Stan shifts and hums in his sleep. He spreads Stan's thighs, gently.

Ford takes him into his mouth in one slow, relaxed motion; Stan is soft, so it's easy enough, a comfortable fit. But it doesn't take long for Stan's body to react, his cock beginning to thicken and go hard on Ford's tongue, filling his mouth. Ford hopes Stan is dreaming about him. As Stan stiffens, Ford begins to work a hand between his own legs -- not teasing, anymore, but jerking himself off with quick, familiar twists of his hand.

Then -- slowly -- with soft, sleepy moans and movement that becomes more pronounced, Stan begins to wake. Ford keeps his own eyes shut, savoring the unknown, working and working Stan's cock with movements that are becoming more sure. When Stan's hips begin to roll up in unsteady jerks, Ford knows Stan is half-awake, and finally lets himself look.

Stan is gazing down at him, bleary-eyed, out of it -- and smiling, his mouth a crooked line, the lines of his shoulders no more tense than they were just a moment ago.

Ford comes, his breath shaky and unsteady against Stan's belly. Stan lifts a hand to cup Ford's jaw, then slides it up into Ford's hair.

"Huh," he says, his voice scratchy. "Nice view."

It doesn't take Stan long -- Ford presses his nose into Stan's belly, sucking and swallowing around Stan's cock, humming as he does, begging without words for Stan to come for him, to let Ford have him --

\-- and then he does, with a broken moan, his thighs shaking against Ford's hands, his head rolling back against the pillow.

*

They don't have any specific goal, this time around; Ford is just poking around to make sure there's nothing unexpected, in here. Stan's projection follows him, his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat.

There is a new hallway in Ford's wing. He's not all that surprised -- he knows there is a similar hallway in his mind, now -- but it does bring him up short. He'd like to see what's inside, but it seems self-absorbed.

Stan doesn't have the same reservations. "Huh, what's this?" he asks, stepping through. "Whoa, check it out, haha! There you are!"

"That doesn't surprise me," Ford says, drily. "The signage has my name on it, Stan."

"No, come check it out. You're sucking me off. Nice. That _is_ a good memory."

"Stan, please..."

Still, they spend some time there, poking through the doors, checking for Bill, at first, and then just looking around. It feels -- awfully voyeuristic, even though it's all things they've done and seen together.

Ford, of course, is not content to only check the surface level. He begins tapping the walls, moving portraits, and peeking under rugs.

What he finds is inside an umbrella stand, of all places. It's a small box, the outside unformed; it shifts as he holds it, which tells Ford it's not a concrete memory -- one, he realizes, must have formed while Stan was asleep.

His heart picks up speed. He holds it up to his ear, listening.

_What would I do without you?_

_I love you._

"What's that?" Stan asks.

Ford nearly drops it, he's so startled -- he sticks it in a pocket out of instinct, before remembering that it's rightfully Stan's. He clears his throat. "Um, nothing. Just -- nothing." He goes to toss it into the umbrella stand again, then hesitates, looking at the unsteady, small shape of it in his hand.

"That's not suspicious at all," Stan says. "What, are you gonna start leaving memories in here, too?"

"No," Ford says. "I mean, maybe. But no, that's not..." He pauses. He's surprised to find that he actually has no interest in hiding this from Stan. "Here," he says, offering the box to Stan. "Go on, then."

Stan shakes the box. Ford stays crouched where he is, his elbows on his knees; he can't bring himself to watch Stan, so he tidies the umbrellas and pokes at the eight ball cane.

There's silence -- just enough that anxiety begins to tighten Ford's chest. Then, there is Stan's weight crouching down behind Ford, Stan's arms wrapping around him, Stan's face burrowing in the crook of Ford's neck.

"You dork," he says. Stan's grin presses against the side of his neck. "Hey. Let's wake up, huh?"

Ford doesn't need to be asked twice.

 


End file.
